Hidden Mercies Read Online Free PDF Page A

measure of peace, he had to tell the people he cared about how sorry he was for causing such pain.
    •   •   •
    Claire noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man rising from his table as she talked to Rose. His hair was short. There was an angry scar running along the entire length of his jaw, and another one directly above his left cheekbone. As he pulled money from his billfold for a tip, she saw that he used his hands with some difficulty—hands that appeared to have been badly burned—and when he walked away, he walked with a limp.
    She knew of poultices that might draw some of the pain from those wounds. Had the man been Amish, she would have considered approaching him and offering a suggestion or two, but he was not Amish. In fact, there was something about him that made her think he might have been a soldier at one time.
    No, she would not be talking to that man anytime soon. Of all professions, that of soldier was one of the most alien to her culture. Quickly, she turned away before he caught her staring.

chapter T HREE
    R oom 214 of Hotel Millersburg had a king-size bed, an antique desk, and three large windows that overlooked the historic hotel’s brick-lined courtyard. The brochure said that live entertainment would perform there during summer months, but in May, the only entertainment Tom could see was two hardy little sparrows quarreling over a scrap of bread.
    He smiled when the drab little female won and flew off, the male following close behind her.
    He was contemplating the possibility of driving somewhere for lunch when there was a soft knock on the door.
    “Housekeeping,” a voice called.
    He unlocked the door. A worried-looking woman stood on the other side. The sixtyish housekeeper, her gray hair done up inside a white prayer Kapp, apologized.
    “I am sorry to disturb you. It’s just that . . .”
    “I need to let you do your job,” he said. “I’ll go get some lunch and give you time to do whatever you need.”
    He knew that she would change the sheets, open the windows to the spring air, and give the room the kind of good cleaning any self-respecting Amish woman would.
    He had missed his people.
    Once he got on the road, he realized that his leg had started to throb again. He fumbled in his pocket, brought out a small pill bottle, flipped open the lid, shook out four pills, tossed them into his mouth, and swallowed, chasing them down with a swig of cold, leftover coffee.
    Soon, the pills began to work their magic and he could relax a little and enjoy the scenery. He marveled at the timelessness of the area. No electricity poles or wires marred the sky. No mobile homes dotted the landscape. Silos thrust up from the earth as though they were organic things growing straight out of the soil. The very number of them was a witness to the richness of the land.
    Farmers walked behind their patient, glistening workhorses, their boots and homemade denim pants stained with the earth from which they wrested a living.
    The smell of that earth being split open with steel plow points, now exposed to the air and sunshine, wafted in through his open window and tickled his senses. He well knew the feel of leather reins in his hands, the tug of the horses, the smell of horse sweat. It almost made him want to stop the car and ask to plow a few rows.
    Almost.
    Nostalgia aside, he had no desire—no true desire—to trudge along staring at the rear end of a horse.
    He turned his mind back toward his goal. Perhaps today he would see Claire and apologize for having killed the father of her child.
    •   •   •
    Maddy was sweeping the porch when Claire arrived home from her second birth that week.
    “You’re back from Kathleen’s so quickly?” Maddy greeted her. “That was a short labor.”
    “Four hours,” Claire said. “She even fixed me a cup of tea before I left.”
    “You let her do that?”
    “She insisted. Oh, and she had a basket of boys’ pants sitting beside the bed so that she